


Just How Damaged

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 07:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: The Monster has been defeated, but Eliot's dreams are still haunted by both the things that he was made to do and the things that he was most afraid of.





	Just How Damaged

Quentin blinked up at the ceiling, unsure what had woken him but certain that he was suddenly wide awake. The room was dark, the small amount of light peeking out from behind the curtain caused by the outside lights rather than any suggestions of daylight, and he wondered how late it was, or how early. His mouth was dry, and he leaned over to grab the bottle of water that was on the bedside table.

A soft cry reached his ears, and immediately he knew that that was what had woken him. Turning back to the other side of the bed, Quentin pushed himself up on his elbows, his brow furrowing as he tried to make his eyes focus in the scarce light. After a few seconds the lump in the bed beside him sharpened into Eliot’s sleeping form. The quilt was pulled up tight around his shoulders and his body curled up tight. Quentin shifted closer, tucking his arms under the quilt and reaching out to him but then he hesitated, not wanting to disturb him too much in case he woke him.

Eliot’s face twitched almost like he was in pain, and when the next sound from Eliot’s lips was closer to a whimper Quentin moved without thinking. Pushing his hair back from his face, he was surprised to find it damp with sweat and he pushed the quilt down to let some air in to cool him down. Slipping his arm around his waist, he settled in as close as he could with Eliot’s knees up in the way, pressing his lips to his shoulder. Hopefully Eliot would know he was close and take comfort in it.

He wasn’t surprised to learn that Eliot was having bad dreams, and although he hoped that it was a one-off he knew in his heart that it more than likely wasn’t. Ever since they’d rescued him from the Monster, he’d made a show of being his usual sardonic, witty self, but there was a level to his exuberance that had completely vanished and any semblance of cheerfulness never seemed to really reach his eyes. He insisted that he was fine (he wasn’t) and that he’d dealt with worse before (he hadn’t), and was coping with everything the same way he usually did – blocking it out with alcohol and drugs and sex.

Quentin and Margo were doing all they could to help him and be there for him, but any attempt to make him talk about his feelings was met with either stony silence or demands to drink more and forget about it like he was.

It clearly wasn’t working.

Quentin pulled back slightly when Eliot started to tremble, his stomach knotting when he saw Eliot’s face contorting. “Hey,” he whispered, rubbing his hand up and down his back lightly. “It’s okay.”

Bringing his arms close in front of him with his hands tightened into fists, Eliot tried to curl in on himself further. “No,” he groaned softly, and Quentin wondered if it was this bad every night and he just slept through it or whether this was new. Eliot mumbled something else but he couldn’t catch more than _hurt_ and _don’t_ and _stop_ , and it was too much for him to just let him sleep through it.

“Eliot,” he said, pulling his arm back from around him. He brushed his fingers over the side of his face instead but as soon as he touched him Eliot jerked away, a strained gasp falling from his lips and his arms flailing out between them, connecting with Quentin’s chest and forcing him back. His heart in his throat, Quentin caught Eliot’s arms and held firm despite the way he started to struggle and cry out in panic. “Wake up, El _,”_ he said louder, sitting up and letting go with one hand to conjure a ball of light above them. Grabbing onto his shoulder as he rolled onto his back, he shook him gently, ignoring the hands that still scrambled between them to push him away. “ _Eliot_.”

His body stiffening, Eliot’s eyes flew open and he stared at him sightlessly for a few long seconds before he blinked slowly, the tension seeping out of him and his arms dropping onto his chest. “Quentin?” he said breathlessly.

“Hey.” He was breathing heavily and there was a wild look in his eyes. Forcing a smile, he reached down and pushed Eliot’s hair out of his eyes, threading his fingers through it as he pushed it back in the way he knew he liked in an attempt to calm him down. “Are you okay?” he asked, regretting the words as soon as they’d left his lips. He’d never seen anyone less okay.

He dropped his hand when Eliot pushed himself up a little on the bed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opened his eyes his breathing had evened out and he looked composed, and his heart sank when his face had the same carefully crafted mask that he held throughout the day.

“Yeah, sure,” Eliot said dismissively, and Quentin felt a spike of… something, in amongst the sick worry in his gut. It felt like an odd combination or frustration and hurt, and guilt for feeling those things. Eliot met his eye evenly, but just he was wondering at how easy it was for him to turn that mask on him, something flickered in his eyes and he dropped his gaze. “Why?”

Quentin stared at him blankly, trying to push down the hurt. “You were having a nightmare,” he said slowly. “A pretty bad one, by the sound of it.”

Eliot’s unconcerned shrug would have been believable if he’d been able to meet his gaze. Or if he hadn’t just been freaking out in his sleep because of a gentle touch. “I don’t remember anything,” he said, settling back on the bed and grabbing his hand, tugging it across him so that he was forced to either lie down with him or fight him off. Quentin didn’t want to fight. Frowning, he let himself be pulled down beside Eliot, his arm wrapped around his waist and his head on his chest. “Let’s just go back to sleep, worry wart,” he said, his fingers stroking through Quentin’s hair like he was the one who needed comforting.

Which would have been fine, if the only sound in the room hadn’t been Eliot’s thundering heartbeat in his ear.

* * *

 

_Eliot wrenched hard on the ropes tied around his wrists but found only just enough give to struggle and nowhere near enough to do anything with. He was stretched along the wall like a tapestry, his arms splayed wide and his feet barely touching the floor. Every inch of him ached – his body was bruised, his skin broken. His head was pounding, his throat dry, and he was so, so tired._

_The Monster smiled up at him with Ora’s mouth, the fire in its eyes sending a shiver of terror through him. It didn’t move, didn’t even blink but suddenly every muscle in his body was stretching, twisting, spasming and he cried out in agony. “Stop, stop – please,” he sobbed but it went on and on, the pain unrelenting. Eventually the pain stopped just as quickly as it had started, and he slumped against the wall, gasping for breath._

_The Monster’s laughter changed in pitch and when he looked up Ora was gone, replaced by the Monster as he’d first met it – the one who he’d shot in Blackspire. “What’s the matter, Eliot?” it asked, taking leisurely steps toward him until it was just a breath away. He blinked, and then it was his own face staring back at him. The Monster tilted its head – Eliot’s head – and smiled at him slowly. “I thought you wanted to play with me?”_

_Blink, and the face he was still looking at his own, but it was bloody and bruised and his eyes were empty with defeat. That wasn’t good enough – defeat was good, but pain was better. He had shot him, he had tried to kill him, and he couldn’t let him get away with that. Smiling at him widely, he focused his mind on weak-Eliot’s insides and squeezed, feeling exhilarated when he screamed._

_He stepped back and Quentin struggled at the ropes, trying to curl in on himself as pain pulsed through him and that wasn’t any good, he couldn’t see his face so he stopped crushing his organs and blocked his airways instead, watching with glee as he looked up at him, his throat working desperately as he gasped uselessly for air. “Eliot,” he rasped, his sad eyes begging with him and then those soft brown eyes turned into Margo’s. Margo coughed, and splatters of blood marred the dark pigment of her lipstick. “El, please.”_

_He was looking at the Eliot-Monster again, tasting that blood, feeling the knives in his stomach, and he gasped with relief when the pressure on his throat eased. The Eliot-Monster tilted its head, its eyes dark with sick pleasure and he screamed with Margo’s voice when he felt the bones in his arms snap, and then he was Quentin, screaming as his legs broke, screaming as he –_

“Eliot! Eliot – fuck – wake up!”

Quentin’s face swam before his eyes, and he realised that he’d been staring at it for some time. His heart was hammering in his chest, his chest burning, and his body ached as though it had been stretched out and… and…

No, like he’d been tossing and turning in his sleep. Reality hit him all at once and he flinched with the force of it. He was at Brakebills. He was safe. Everyone was safe. He was okay.

The people that he’d hurt weren’t okay. The people that he’d killed. He’d hurt his friends, he’d hunted them like animals and when he’d caught them… fear and memory had blended together to form a different scene every night to torment him with, and he felt bile rise up in the back of his throat at the thought of the parts of his dreams that had been real. He’d seen everything the Monster had seen, felt everything that it had felt, and nothing he’d tried so far had been able to shake those memories from his mind.

Quentin’s grip softened on his arms, his hands shifting to cup his cheeks, and Eliot couldn’t bear the tenderness and worry in Quentin’s eyes when his mind was full of the terror that he’d felt just seconds ago. Grabbing his wrists, he pulled his hands away. “I’m okay,” he said, trying to put some semblance of that into his voice but failing completely. “I’m fine.”

It had taken every ounce of focus he had to make that true for the last few weeks, or to make it appear true, and he had it under control. He did. He reached for that control now and felt it fraying between his fingers. He was fine. He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t get his own manic laughter out of his head, the sound of Quentin and Margo’s agony, their screaming faces twisted because of him.

He realised he was shaking, his hands still gripping Quentin’s wrists too tightly and he forced his fingers to loosen. Quentin was kneeling above him, anxiety etched into his features, and he didn’t move when Eliot let him go. “You’re nowhere near okay, Eliot,” he said, his voice high with disbelief.

_What’s the matter, Eliot?_

He wanted to bury himself in Quentin’s love and forgiveness and understanding, he knew that being around him or Margo was the only thing giving him even the barest semblance of calm, but the thought of finding comfort in either of them while the image of hurting them was so fresh in his mind was too much. He couldn’t do that to them, couldn’t accept that from them right now. He knew they were trying to help, but now, looking up at Quentin, knowing that all he wanted was to make him feel better wracked him with guilt so strong that he felt his stomach turn. “I need a minute,” he said, pushing the quilt aside and getting to his feet.

“Wait, what?”

He could feel Quentin’s eyes on him as he pulled on a pair of underwear and grabbed his robe from where it hung over the back of a chair but didn’t look up at him. He could hear the hurt in his voice, and knew he’d have that same look in his eye that had been there for the last few weeks. _Why can’t I do more to help you? What’s broken that I can’t fix?_ He didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was beyond fixing. “Go back to sleep,” he said, tying the robe loosely around his waist as he fled the room.

The rest of the cottage felt just as stifling as his bedroom. Outside, the cold night air was a shock to his system and, stumbling out onto the grass, he dropped to his knees. Leaning forward, he fisted one hand in the grass, his eyes watering and his throat burning as he let his stomach heave.

* * *

 

Grabbing his phone, Quentin frowned when he read the time as a little after three, and his worry grew with every second that passed. Twisting the quilt between his hands, he looked to the door, hoping it would open but it remained as firmly closed as it had since Eliot had disappeared through it twenty minutes ago.

He should have followed him. When he’d first left, he’d wanted to go after him but had held back, knowing that the only thing in Eliot’s room that he would have to run from was… well, him. He swallowed down his pride and his hurt, wanting to give Eliot anything that he needed to get through this, not wanting to push him past what he could handle. It wasn’t about him. He could deal with Eliot not talking through his feelings, he could deal with feeling left out.

But he couldn’t deal with the blind panic on Eliot’s face, the terror in his voice as he’d screamed himself awake. And when he’d woken it was just as bad – his hands shaking, his eyes wild.

He couldn’t just sit there, not any longer. Pushing back the quilt, he found the jeans he’d worn the day before and pulled them on, slipping a t-shirt over his head as he left the bedroom.

The lights were out in the cottage, and he looked carefully through the common room. He wouldn’t be surprised to find him sitting in the dark, but he wasn’t there or in the kitchen. He thought that the next likely spot was Margo’s room – he had to be _somewhere_ – but he poked his head out the back door just in case since he was downstairs anyway, and felt his shoulders drop in relief when he saw Eliot’s familiar form sitting at the table.

His back was to him, and Quentin watched as he tensed at the sound of the back door closing but he didn’t turn around. Quentin hoped that his presence was expected and hoped for, but even if it wasn’t, he wasn’t walking away. Moving slowly, he stepped around to the other side of the table and sat down, watching Eliot carefully. He sat with his arms wrapped around his stomach, his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring unseeingly at the table in front of him.

He no longer looked like he was in the midst of a panic attack, but Quentin was well aware that looks could be deceiving. He didn’t react to Quentin’s presence, didn’t look up or acknowledge him at all, and Quentin hesitated, suddenly without a clue as to what to say. _Talk to me. You’re not alone. Let me help you. It’s going to be okay._ He felt like everything that came to his mind was either too much or not enough.

But maybe that was okay. Eliot knew every version of everything he could say. He wasn’t telling him to leave or brushing it off and pretending he was okay like he had been for weeks so that felt like progress… as much as the openly haunted look in his eyes could be called progress. Quentin pushed aside the need to fill the silence and settled in, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, hoping that if he waited long enough Eliot might show some sign that he was ready to let him in.

Even if he didn’t, he could just be there, and maybe that would be enough.

The night was cold, their breath frosting slightly in the air between them, but Eliot didn’t seem to feel it despite the way his thin robe hung loosely on his shoulders. Quentin wanted to go back inside for a jumper or a blanket or anything to wrap around him but he wanted to leave him alone less so he stayed put. He didn’t want Eliot to think he was staring at him so he let his attention be drawn to the empty beer bottle sitting on the table that was being used as an ashtray. It was half full of cigarette butts, and a faint swirl of smoke drifted from the mouth of the bottle. After a minute the last remains of smoke faded but he kept his face turned toward the bottle, not wanting to crowd Eliot but unable to keep from glancing toward him every few minutes.

Time moved strangely in the middle of the night, so Quentin wasn’t sure how long it had been before Eliot finally moved. He did his best not to react when Eliot opened the cigarette case on the table before him and brought one to his lips, lighting one with a quick wave of his fingers and a long indrawn breath. The case slid across the table towards him and Quentin reached out slowly to grab it, cautiously looking up at Eliot as he took one. His face was blank, his eyes closed, and Quentin waited until he breathed out the smoke in one long, slow breath before he lit his own cigarette.

One of Eliot’s arms stayed around his stomach like he was trying to hold himself together. Quentin wished that he hadn’t put the table between them, wanted to wrap his arms around him and do _something_ to show him how much he was there for him, how much he meant to him, but if he didn’t do this on Eliot’s terms then it was more likely that he’d turn in on himself again so he inhaled the cigarette deeply, focusing on the burn of it in his throat.

“I was awake.” Quentin looked up sharply before he could stop himself, but Eliot’s eyes were firmly on the table between them. His voice was quiet but steady. “The whole time. Everything it saw, I saw. Everything it did, I did. Everything it felt –” He cut off, and Quentin curled in tighter on himself to stop himself from reaching out to him when his eyes squeezed closed against whatever memory was haunting him. Eliot raised his cigarette to his lips again with a shaking hand and took another long draw. Quentin watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

Eventually Eliot raised his eyes to meet his, and he felt something inside of him crumble at how completely lost he looked. “I knew what it wanted from the moment that it… that it had me. It wanted all of us, and it was going to use me to get to the rest of you. We hunted you, Q.” His voice broke, and Quentin dropped his feet to the ground, leaning forward in his chair, wanting nothing more that to reach out and take some of that pain away. “I held onto that terror for months. That it would find you, and that I’d have to live through torturing the people I love.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “It was going to torture you and then kill you, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Quentin couldn’t even imagine having to go through something like that for so long. He’d had the Lamprey inside him for a day and that had been hard enough, but to have something living in you, controlling you for so long with an utter hatred for your loved ones and an intention to see them dead for _months_ would have been more than anyone could handle. With the power that the Monster had, the worst possibilities would have seemed inevitable. “Eliot,” he started softly, and then paused when he shook his head, his throat working hard, but he couldn’t just let him dwell on those fears when everyone else was all right. “That didn’t happen,” he said, keeping his voice quiet but firm. “Sure, there was a fight, but we contained it before anyone was seriously hurt.”

“I know that,” he said brokenly, bringing his cigarette to his lips and staring at it when he noticed it was out. Quentin held his half finished cigarette out and resisted the urge to wrap his fingers around Eliot’s when they brushed his as he took it from him. Taking a long draw, he dropped the butt into the beer bottle and then shivered, pulling his robe closer around him as though he’d only just noticed the cold. His breath was shaky as he exhaled the last of the smoke, and maybe it wasn’t the cold after all. “But I still see it every time I close my eyes. Every time it’s a different torture but it’s always you, or Margo, or both of you. Q… It wasn’t just that I was trapped inside my own body for those months. It was like I was the Monster. Every time I hurt someone, I could feel how much it enjoyed it like it was my enjoyment. It was so excited at the thought of getting its hands on all of you, and I felt that like _I_ was excited to…” Looking stricken, he turned his head away, covering his mouth with his hand and closing his eyes. “And… there were others. I know it didn’t get you or Margo, or our friends, but… but there were others that got in its way, and I… I felt it all.”

The lump in his throat was too big to swallow, the weight in his heart too heavy. Eliot had carried this for weeks without opening up to anyone about a single thing that he’d gone through while he’d been possessed. He felt like he’d break with the pain of it all, but he wasn’t the one who had to live with those memories and those fears. “Can I stop trying to give you space now please?” he asked weakly. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, Eliot nodded and he didn’t hesitate, pushing himself to his feet and circling the table in three steps. Sitting sideways across Eliot’s lap, he wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders and pulled him in close, and when his trembling hands clung to him tightly his heart broke just a little bit more.

“It wasn’t you,” he said quietly, his lips brushing Eliot’s hair as his face pressed hard against his chest. He threaded the fingers of one hand through his hair, holding his head against him as his other arm tightened around his shoulders. “You might have felt it, but it wasn’t you. The Monster did those things, hurt those people – _not you_.”

A deep shudder went through him, and Quentin just held him close as the tension that he’d carried for weeks dissolved into sobs so strong they wracked his whole body. Tears pricked at his own eyes and he let them fall, silently raging at the world that after everything that Eliot had been through, he was still being haunted by sick memories of fucked up emotions that weren’t even his own. He felt his shirt growing damp and tightened his arms around Eliot, pressing his mouth against his hair, trying to pour every ounce of comfort and support and love that he felt into his embrace.

Eventually his sobs faded, but he didn’t make any move to pull back which was fine because the last thing Quentin wanted was to let him go. “It can’t hurt any of us now,” he said, hoping he’d take comfort in that at least. “You don’t have to see that or feel it ever again.”

Eliot’s muffled laugh was harsh and derisive. “Until I go back to sleep, anyway.”

“Hey,” he said as he pulled back, his need for Eliot to see his sincerity overtaking his want to hold him close. He cupped his head with both of his hands, his fingers curling around the back of his head while his thumbs brushed over his cheeks. He stared into his red eyes and was overcome with the need to do whatever it took to make some part of this even the tiniest bit better. “I’ll be there with you. Every minute. And… maybe there’s something we can do. About the dreams, I mean. Magic has to be good for something eventually, right?”

The skin around Eliot’s eyes crinkled, and Quentin wasn’t sure if he was trying to smile or if he was trying not to cry again. Maybe it was both. “I don’t know how you can even look at me,” he whispered with a grimace, looking up at him helplessly and Quentin bent down without thinking, pressing his lips gently against Eliot’s. He knew it was a stupid move, particularly when Eliot was finally talking about what he was going through instead of trying to bury it with sex and substance abuse, but he couldn’t just sit there while he was thinking that he might see him as anything less because of what he’d shared with him.

Eliot stiffened beneath him, and Quentin was about to pull back, mentally kicking himself for taking such a stupid approach when both of his hands came up to cup his face much like Quentin was holding Eliot’s, returning the kiss with the same soft tenderness. Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, he pressed his forehead against Eliot’s, and felt some of the tension leave Eliot’s body for the first time that night as his arms settled around his waist. They sat like that for a few minutes, Quentin relaxing as Eliot did, the two of them finding comfort in each other.

Eventually, he turned his head to press his lips against Eliot’s cheek. “Let me know when you want to go back inside. We don’t have to sleep,” he added quickly. He just wanted to get Eliot in from out of the cold, but pushed aside a joke about dying of frostbite before it could form. It would either make him smile or take his mind back to death, and he wasn’t going to take the risk. “I’ll talk to Alice in the morning, or maybe Julia, or Dean Fogg. Someone has to know something about dream magic.”

Leaning back, Eliot tucked his hair back behind his ear, letting his fingers trail down his cheek before his hand fell to his chest. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Thank you for not giving up.”

He wasn’t sure whether he meant now or earlier, when the Monster had him, but the answer was the same regardless. “That’s never going to happen,” he promised, his whole heart behind those words. He hoped Eliot could see how completely he meant that. “I’m not going to let you suffer any more for this.”

Something passed over Eliot’s face again and when he leaned into him quickly Quentin brought his arms tightly around his shoulders. It hurt to see him so broken, and he could only imagine that hurt was a fraction of what Eliot was feeling. _We’ll figure it out,_ he thought, pulling him closer. _Whatever it takes, we’ll figure it out. Together._


End file.
